


an alternative approach

by Splashattack



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Burns, Gen, Injury, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2020, alchemy accidents, chemical burns, though not gonna lie it's pretty light on the comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/pseuds/Splashattack
Summary: Wilde is here for one reason, and one reason only: to help save the world. Without his magic, he knows he's more of a liability than an asset to the team‒and he owes it to everyone else to fix this.
Relationships: Azu & Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2020





	an alternative approach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyscaleCourtier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyscaleCourtier/gifts).



> ALL of the kudos to Oli, who beta'd this fic and is literally the only reason it's legible. You're an absolute treasure.
> 
> seriously though their ao3 username is futurearmadillomother go check them out for tma fics they're so ridiculously talented
> 
> Happy holidays everyone! 💚
> 
> cw for: feelings of helplessness/uselessness, description of burns (not graphic)

Wilde could remember, as if it was yesterday, what it had been to feel strands of magic around him, to know that he could weave them into whatever he needed with an instantaneous hum. He remembered taking the spider-silk threads for granted, even; they had been such a constant that he stopped truly appreciating their beauty. It was one of the greatest regrets of his life.

The weight around his ankles had become so familiar that Wilde often forgot he was wearing them. Well over a year since he’d last woven reality with his voice, he still found himself instinctively producing a feather-light whistle each time he passed a mirror. Not a day passed that he didn’t mourn for the intangible embrace of magic, but it was a thing of the past, something to be remembered rather than yearned for. Wilde was more than capable of swallowing his desire to sing, to be _free_ , until he was able to actually deal with the curse.

It was hard, though. He’d proven himself such an atrocious combatant that it was universally agreed he was better off at the sidelines, waiting to pick up the pieces of his team. Wilde wasn’t sure he’d ever fully adjust to how helpless he was‒so when Cel offered to share how they warped the world, there was no way he’d turn them down, even if their methods were less than elegant. Sloppiness was infinitely more preferable than this empty sense of uselessness.

When Wilde finally worked up the courage to seek them out, Cel was halfway wedged behind the ship’s engines, but they didn’t appear to be working on maintenance. Instead, they had an arm elbow-deep in the grimy mechanics, their face twisted in determination and smeared with grease. They pulled back a moment later, clutching a sharp, blackened object, and tucked it into one of the multitudes of pockets lining their pants with a victorious grin before they noticed Wilde, and, backing away from the engine, flashed him a guilty, preoccupied smile. 

“Oh! Mr. Wilde! I’m so sorry, I didn’t notice you coming down‒there’s been this rattling in the engines, you see, and I was a bit worried‒but it’s all fine! There was just‒uh, something that shouldn’t be there?‒in it.”

Wilde nodded, though he didn’t question what Cel had removed. Given how nervous they seemed, he wasn’t sure he even _wanted_ to know. 

“I’d like to‒take you up on that offer, as it were,” Wilde began, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture that was equal parts casual and defensive.

Cel’s eyes lit up, and they nodded enthusiastically as they brushed their already dirty palms over their pants. Wilde winced; they’d only managed to smear the grime further.

“Of course! You’ll have to forgive me, though, I’m sometimes not the best at remembering things, only human and all that‒well, not human, but that’s how the phrase goes. Anyway. What can I do for you?”

Wilde shuffled his feet, glancing around the room uncomfortably before focusing his gaze back on Cel, trying not to bite his lip. 

“A few days ago, if you remember, you offered to teach me some of your more basic alchemical recipes. I was wondering if‒you’d still be willing to‒share your expertise?”

Most people assumed Wilde didn’t like to ask for help because he was too independent. He preferred to believe it was because he didn’t enjoy appearing as anything less than eloquent‒which he was far from at the moment.

“Oh! I’d be happy to, Mr.Wilde. Are you on a shift?”

Wilde shook his head, picking at the polish on his nails subconsciously, sending a flurry of shimmering violet flakes to the floor. 

“Brilliant! Let’s go, then, my equipment is set up in my cabin‒you know what they say, the early bird gets the rocket science! Or the early rocket gets the bird? Something like that."

Wilde raised a brow, smirking slightly. “Let’s,” he agreed, following Cel out of the engine room and up the levels of the ship. 

Their room was nothing less than what he’d expected: absolutely chaotic. It was a maze of tables, cluttered with books and bits of metal, and containers of various materials that he didn’t want to think about lay strewn across every available surface and then some. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the roof, and a small green flame burned in a corner. Wilde was unable to locate anything that looked even remotely like sleeping quarters in the mess.

Cel whirled through the cabin, moving flasks, collecting various jars, and at one point, throwing what looked like a scrap of cloth to the flame. They produced a simple wooden chair, but rather than sitting in it, they piled onto it the various vials they held.

“Alright. So. Potions! You ready?” Cel asked with an infectious enthusiasm, clapping their hands together. Wilde fought, with only partial success, to school his amused bewilderment into something attentive before moving to join them inside the room.

“I know I’m not the expert, Cel, but I can’t help but wonder if it would perhaps be more efficient to use the table as our workspace,” he suggested. Cel hesitated, seeming to consider this, before moving the books on the table to the floor beside it and giving them an affectionate pat. They scooped the equipment off the chair and dumped it onto the newly-cleared surface.

“Alright, so‒I know people learn in different ways, and I’m not sure what works best for you‒but I usually just let Jasper watch when I was teaching him, so we can try that and you can interrupt if you have questions‒I mean, you must have questions, that’s why you came to me‒no, that’s an assumption, that’s on me, I sincerely apologize. I truly didn’t mean any offense, Mr. Wilde.” 

Wilde leaned against the edge of one of the tables, crossing his arms across his chest. “An assumption, but correct nonetheless,” he confirmed, inclining his head to Cel in a gesture for them to begin.

“Right, so. First off, how much fluid do we want? That’s the question‒that I have an answer to! That I will share with you. At this moment in time. Well, not that moment, it’s gone, but this next one...” Cel trailed into a mumble as they pulled a cork out of an unlabeled bottle and poured a measure of a thick, milky liquid into the basin. They began feverishly unscrewing jars, opening cloth bags, and sucking liquid into a pipette‒Wilde quickly lost track of what they were doing, and didn’t have the slightest clue what to ask to begin to understand.

After a few minutes of frenzied crushing, pouring, and measuring, Cel stepped back triumphantly, clapping their hands together. “Mr. Wilde, look at it, isn’t it beautiful? This is the best part‒you get to stir everything together.” They pushed an elegantly carved wooden spoon into Wilde’s hands before taking a position opposite the table, allowing them to watch.

The mixture was surprisingly thin when Wilde stirred it; given how many different powders were added, he’d expected it to be syrupy at the very least, but it had a consistency similar to that of water. The extra force resulted in a decent amount of the smoking gray liquid splashing out of the cauldron and across his fingers, and he pulled away with a hiss, nearly elbowing Cel in his haste. His hand was adorned with a large swathe of blistering skin, and he blew on it, taking another step away from the table to avoid getting in Cel’s way.

It _hurt_.

Cel was at his side in an instant, having dropped the mushroom they were inspecting, which hit the table with a mushy thump. They reached out and grabbed his hand to inspect it, almost as if on instinct, before dropping it and taking a step back.

“Oh, I should have warned you, Mr. Wilde, this particular potion is volatile before it’s been thoroughly mixed‒that’s what the bone dust was for, it neutralizes the acid‒but I was really hoping this could be a pain-free learning experience. We should go‒go get Azu, she’ll know what to do, right? Yeah.” Cel’s voice was bordering on hysterical by the time they finished speaking.

“No, I’m fine,” Wilde insisted, dropping his hand to his side and doing his best to ignore the burning sensation that almost seemed to be spreading. He wasn’t, he knew that, but it wasn’t Cel’s responsibility to fix the problems he managed to create for himself. Wilde sighed inwardly as they opened their mouth to argue, and cut them off preemptively. 

“I know what you’re going to say, Cel, and I’m more than capable of finding Azu on my own,” he snapped. One look at the expression on Cel’s face, concerned with a slight touch of hurt, filled him with regret; he offered them an apologetic half-smile and left the room in a single fluid movement. 

His hand hurt, yes. But hands weren’t necessary for walking, and Cel was under no obligation to put their projects on hold on his behalf.

Azu stood near the edge of the ship, looking over the railing with a slightly wistful gaze, when he found her. He strode across the deck, clutching his injured hand to his chest.

“Azu. I need a favor,” Wilde began without preamble, presenting her with the injury. It wasn’t a pretty sight: whatever had been in the cauldron had clung to his hand, and it was still smoking. Wilde was pretty sure it was going to scar, even _with_ healing.

“Of cour‒ oh!” Azu took his hand in hers, bending down to examine the injury. Without a word she closed her eyes, and Wilde watched in horrified fascination as new skin grew over the burn and the now-gelatinous elixir fell to the ground. He kicked it through the railing with a vaguely disgusted expression.

“Thank you,” Wilde responded, and Azu squeezed his hand once before letting it go.

“Always,” Azu promised, smiling at him before turning back to the swirling mists that currently obscured what had been a breathtaking view. Wilde stood next to her, staring into the fog.

Maybe he should try daggers.


End file.
